Anthony stood up; the sleep had done him a deal of good; his head was steady, and the pain had all but gone. He took a draft of the brandy and stretched himself with wide-flung arms; then he stood frowning and considering. _Le Mousquet_ was a schooner. He knew schooners; he had both stowed and sailed them; and he knew what was possible and likely aboard one. _Le Mousquet_ was private-armed, and manned more than likely by a reckless, insubordinate company, not to be trusted with arms, save in the presence of an enemy. The officers would possibly carry pistols when on duty. At this hour there was hardly more than one on deck; the others would be snoring in their beds. Anthony stepped across a man who lay asleep outside the door, and went quietly on deck. The river looked cold and quiet: the sails were drawing but little; the watch were muffled in heavy coats to keep out the chill touch of the mist. Anthony moved the length of the deck unnoticed, and down at the after hatch. Here on this side was the captain's room. This, on this hand, would be the room shared by the lieutenants; and here would be the room where the small arms would likely be stored. He examined the lock on this door; it was stout, but the woodwork was worn, and the door loose, and he shoved back the bolt with the blade of his knife. Muskets were racked against the wall at one side; the other bristled with pistols and cutlasses, and a low door opened into the magazine. Methodically, Anthony put three brace of pistols aside; then, one by one, he slipped the remainder noiselessly through the low port-hole into the river; and the muskets, to the number of three dozen, followed them. With powder and ball taken from the magazine, he loaded the pistols he had kept; then he stowed them about his person and went out of the room. From the other side of the lieutenants' door came the grumbling of a man half asleep, and Anthony went in. The officer was sitting up in his bed yawning and scratching his unshaven jaws; he stared at Anthony, surprised; then out of the bed he came with a leap and reached for a pistol that hung from a hook by the trigger-guard. Anthony also grasped at it, and as they struggled the weapon roared thunderously in the narrow space. Desperate at the sound, Anthony tore the pistol from the man's hand and struck him with it shrewdly, and he fell; then the young man whirled about to meet the master of the schooner entering at the door. In trying to avoid the blow that curved toward him, the one-eyed man fell; and as he did so he set up a roaring. "On deck! Help! Drive a knife through this devil!"